By steps he retreated from Iylum's domain, and driftered far in a darkling wasteland.
A throng of dawn mirages expected him; fires on the mountain crowns that soon cooled to vermilion, indigo, taupe.
No other living thing did he meet. With the wind he walked, over lands sagged into slue, through jungles cinereous and mute, across oceans frozen.
So his own circadian process deteriorated. Sleep shrank to syncope; a malaise of oneirataxia conjured dweomers of cadaverous behemoths, mundified by a blood deluge, the welkin's eye opening into a vault of oblivion, coruscating xanthochromatic.
Like the peakfires, this delirium glutted then waned. He quit sleep. He could not remember what last he ate, or ever eating. Still his doom vexed him, so he walked. Over dunes of ash, through starlit wealds of argent stone, across the void of seas.
A doubt burgeoned, then festered: Was it the world execrated, and him spared? Was it the world in fugue, and him lucid?
Was the world final, and he the final arbiter?
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